


A Lover's Moon

by paintbox (imstillprettyodd)



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: Domestic, Epistolary, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Inspired by Music, Lowercase, Multi-Era, Multiple Relationships, POV First Person, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26540242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imstillprettyodd/pseuds/paintbox
Summary: Short scenes addressing Robert from a first person perspective.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Original Female Character(s), John Bonham/Original Female Character(s), John Paul Jones/Original Female Character(s), Robert Plant/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 13





	1. the ghost song

**_"and we laugh like soft, mad children"_ **

marrakesh reminds me of you: open and alive. your hand rests in mine and guides me through the packed streets. above us, the dark blue sky shivers with bright stars. around us, sellers hawk and spices fill baskets and bowls, nearly spilling from them as their scents waft and intoxicate. you'd made a comment about how morocco could make you drunk on its existence alone, but the mahia didn't hurt much.

ahead, jimmy walks with a woman he met this morning and they speak in a private, quiet language. i turn to you and catch your wide eyes, the lines leaking from their corners.

in another life, i imagine you were a prince.

"i'm looking forward to the food," i tell you.

with the movement of your head, your hair blows back with the wind. suddenly, you're much younger.

"ahh, of course. they have delicious meals there. sometimes i like to order too much just to take it home with me . . . pagey! take a left up here."

jimmy stops to smirk our way and brings us through an alley. lit with candles is the small restaurant you told me about. a hole in the wall that you've been to on every visit to morocco after the first.

we walk inside and the owner welcomes us, his arms outstretched. he's old like you, skin leathery and voice warm.

"robert," he shouts. "it's good to see you and mr. page. and who are these two lovely young ladies?"

i introduce myself and smile lightly. jimmy's tall companion gives her name and makes a comment in arabic. the man laughs in a shattering tone. he guides us to a table in the back with plush pillows and woven rugs.

we get our first meal, tagine, served steaming. it's how i wanted it to be, one dish for all of us and bread to share.

"go on, try it," you murmur, and watch me eat. the couscous almost drops from my mouth. i put my hand up and nod my head.

through a mouthful, i manage, "good."

you grin and rub my back. your image is cast gold and orange in the candle lights. your curls shine and the silk of your shirt glows before you turn and find the musicians playing in the corner, sat with their instruments, filling the space with vivid rhythms.  
for that moment, i disappear, until you face me again and gesture me up with you.

we stand. in the middle of the floor, to the beat of the animal-skins, you dance with me. your hips move with all the luxury of your youth and you bring your hands together, clapping. i match you and start to laugh at it all. we spin around one another, our bodies brushing, and you have no other motive than joy.

my heart calls. you tilt your head and the bare skin of your neck teases. like the first time we spoke in the parking lot of the theater, your figure turns. this time, there are no streetlights and impatient drivers, only you and me. i don't have to guess if this will be a one night stand because you tug my arm and my scarf flutters. like the pinned butterfly, my wings are spread. i breathe your soul and it smells like saffron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Doors. Inspiration from RP and JP's travels to and music-making in Morocco.


	2. a case of you

**_"oh, you are in my blood like holy wine"_ **

jennings farm moans. we sit in silence. it's more than i could ask for, more than i thought you would give me as you rip dead leaves between your fingers.

"robert," a doggish whine slipped from my tongue.

i could leave and try to forget all this. i could give you back the sun and find another man to be my husband. the grass of the english countryside feels dry under my palms. your dog, strider, sniffs at a dead frog. you stare.

"do you love me?"

i don't have to look at you to know your eyes are focused elsewhere, on the sky, the earth. and i shut my own to imagine i am one of your road conquests and how it must feel to be your chosen taste for a night. how easily you can come back and be country boy again. they know nothing.

"i do . . ." your hesitation is enough.

you crumple your fist into the weeds beneath us.

my lips drag. "i won't marry an unfaithful man."

"i know."

strider bounds back. he is open-mouthed and smiling. do you remember the picture john paul took of me, my arms wrapped around the collie's neck?

he licks your fingers. i can hear your sigh: the end of your realization.   
that's what causes me to stand, to feel the prickling in my calves.

you stay. a bareness tears between us. strider curls and settles in the v of your open legs, looking at me, panting at me. i think he knows too.

the heave and slope of your breath-caught shoulders almost gets me, but i turn my back. we have our love letters, the piano and guitar, the late nights when you kept me awake with your voice, and ursa major and minor.

a storm cloud rolls over the sun. my knuckles itch at the sight of it.

in the house, i have my clothes and things, packed and ready. that, i know, is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Joni for this one, and that picture of Robert and Strider on the bike.


	3. born to be blue

**_"but moonbeams being gold are something i can't behold"_ **

on most days, i wake when you wake and watch you stretch with your hands above your head. you forget to shower and end up smelling like clay and smoke. it makes my back curl. makes me sweat. 

our feet scrape in bed. we make lazy love before you finally leave me to drawl barefoot around the farmhouse, barefoot to the phone where you dial peter and laugh with him.

i'm sad because i know we can't stay here forever. the real world will come back to us and it causes me to moan. where grooming the horse and feeding the goats rules my day, offices and school and wages stare back.

you laugh and wrap me. _"i never wanted a conventional job either. what about laying asphalt?"_

but i still keep up my moods. where i wish i could make my home in the laughing tilt of your voice, you show me black-and-whites of your bearded brothers, the fan polls you're winning.

i'm happy. and i'm selfish. it's not until you invite me to headley grange that i shed my skin and dress for the grass. just for two days, but we sit in the field by the mobile studio and smoke. john comes rolling through, his drums relocated again. a childish prank.

you laugh at the redness of his face, frown when you take me up the stairs and show me how the heat doesn't rise. it's dark and damp, only jimmy can really stand it. you say it's because he's cold-blooded.

outside again you put heavy headphones on me and wait for my smile. some sweet ditty about a woman. i grin. i'd like to think it's me.

at last it all folds together. i'm alone just with the animals. i shun the world away and listen to those demo tapes you smuggled for me, to have your voice in my pocket, above my heart. dark coffee and the bathtub's porcelain. petals caught in my shirt folds. today's a day of pruning flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking of Chet Baker


	4. as the years go passing by

_**"there's nothing i can do if you leave me here to cry"** _

i'm watching from the hallway in my salvation army coat, spying, as you light john's cigarette. i like the way you two look together. he's all caught up and you're inching forward, shirt tight and low. your exhale fills the backstage and when the smoke clears, john's eyes are on me.

a light glitters inside and i smile, broad and wide. my pastel stockings, prickled with electricity, sizzle as i walk forward and open my arms for him. to bury him in perfume and faux fur.

"where've you been?" john asks, his voice near my throat.

"here. there," i say and kiss him in the middle of his mouth. you're quick to catch on from behind. your arms link around me, pulling me away so i face you instead.

"she goes where the wind blows. doesn't she?" you're taking me, fully, my hands laced around your neck, and my lips already pecking your jaw. lip gloss turns your new beard sticky.

john watches with a hawk's gaze. each brush of my body with yours is a shiv to his side.

"how are you now?"

"oh, fine," i say, back from home and silly-headed to be with the band again. two years since i've been so fresh and green. two years since john and i became drunkards and lovers. a year since you set in between us, bare-footed hippie. behind your back, we made fun of you. that's when he told me about you wrapping your legs around a column onstage. his mother banned him from ever playing with you again. "i missed you, john."

he smiles, his eyes low. from his pocket, he pulls out his cigarettes and a folded piece of paper. he holds them in the air and waits until i break from your strong arms.

"i wrote this," he mumbles. sober and shy, he hasn't yet cured his stage-fright. there's a smudge of blue ink on the outside of the hotel memo, and inside, his hurried writing.

"bummed you didn't see the show last night. it was a hoot." your words ring off the wall.

i'm reading, half-listening, as john's notes of love and longing bury deep in my lungs. he missed me too, thought of me at every city, wondering when i'd turn up. he'd started to think i rejected him. "a hoot," i repeat, coming to the final line.

john's waiting. i reach up and thumb his cheek. he gives me a puff of his cigarette and when that's done, lights another. in the sun, his eyes look a dark, cooked honey gold. they're dark brown here, under blue lights.

your warm hand grabs my waist and tugs. "come with me. i have something to show you."

"robert — " i object, but you're already taking me. i look over my shoulder and it's john's back that faces me.

against the wall, you kiss me with my head in your hands, reddening my cheeks as your face rubs mine. "you taste like mint." another kiss, this time where your mouth lingers along my neck. "so who's it gonna be?"

my breath fans your hair. "what do you mean?"

"don't tease. bonzo or me?"

"i'm not playing this with you." i knock your hands away and you move, wide-eyed. "i came back for him, anyway."

indignation spreads across your face, your forehead wrinkling. "yeah, huh?"

"yeah, robert. i think that if you cared about me, i could have what i want."

"what _do_ you want, two lovers at once?"

"that's what you have, don't you? maureen, me, who knows who else."

i clench my jaw and feel my heartbeat claim my body. your face falls and it's just enough for me to walk past you and into the dressing rooms. i've never talked back before; sudden fear of absence creeps into my skin.

as jimmy smiles and invites me to sit with him, i give a plastic grin and bury my face into the fabric of his shirt. selfish me. selfish and needy.


	5. dancing barefoot

_**"she has the slow sensation that he is levitating with she"** _

"are you tired?" you ask me. you're laboring my breath, head on my chest and curls smelling of jasmine and oranges. i play with the soft ends, separating them, coiling them around my finger. 

"not yet. are you?" the room's a little too warm. heat clings to the curtains and bed sheets and swallows me up just to sweat me out. 

"exhausted."

you roll over suddenly, off of me, and yawn. getting to stare at your back feels like another morning. like i could reach out, by your spine, and trace the splotch birth mark there to wake you up.

i fold my hands over my stomach and wait in silence for the start of your gentle snoring. that's when i take off, smoothing my shirt's fabric and using my foot to bring the heavy hotel door to a close.

i'm a child out after curfew, pressed along the walls until i reach the elevators, taking them all the way up to the sky bar.

jimmy is waiting for me in one of the plush lounge chairs. all dark against the velvet red. he holds his glass up in greeting to me — bourbon rolls like a tiny, caramel ocean.

"what took you so long?"

"robert had to fall asleep first." i sit down next to him, where our thighs touch, and he calls over a bartender. vodka on the rocks sweetened with cranberry juice; jimmy knows i'm picky. 

these nightly rendezvous give us our night caps and the highs we need to get up the next day. like he's giving me a frightened chick to pet, jimmy clasps his hand over mine, setting the full moon pill in my palm. a sideways stare. we drown the bitter taste with our cocktails at the same time. he laughs, a light sound, and gestures outside to the veranda. 

when i get high, it tingles my teeth: the warning sign of a panic attack, but instead of losing breath, my body seems to hold it in. i float.

down below, the car taillights wash the wet chicago street in red. jimmy told me once about being an observer instead of a participant and mentioned you, how you could learn so much more from keeping silent. on the balcony railing, i grip his hand. he returns the pressure and i wonder about you alone in your hotel room. you sleeping in an empty bed.

"i feel lightheaded," i announce. quaaludes spurred on by guilt. i remember, once, comforting you in the bathroom beneath the sink as you shuddered for home. we have a round love; it always comes back to moments like those. very close, reaching in and holding still. 

jimmy helps me to his room and splays me out on the bed. i wait, as i waited for you to sleep, and watch him switch off the lights around the suite. when he crawls back to me, he's lost his shoes and button-up shirt. he glows milk-white under the moonlight.

we have slow, starving sex. i think of you as i entangle and compare the width of jimmy's shoulders and how he won't let me hold him after for comfort. stubborn with a strange, shy pride. i'd fall at jimmy's feet if he wanted me to, shine the leather till my reflection glared back.

in routine, jimmy wakes me just as the sky washes into light blue and sends me back to your room.

you're still sleeping, head tipped back and mouth open. i slip under the covers beside you. when you open your eyes, i'm where you left me.

"you smell like a man," you laugh, face in my chest.

"'cause i need a shower. join me."

we strip in the bathroom. i want to tell you i like your body as you blabber and struggle with a pant leg. under water, we lather. you giggle and i play you for a fool.


	6. famous blue raincoat

**_"thanks for the trouble you took from her eyes"_ **

john puts his head on my shoulder and gives me that scent i love so well: cinnamon and dried fruit. i curl my hands around his arm and pull him closer. his hair, soft and just washed, tickles my lips. my mouth can't catch itself:

"i wish robert loved me as much as you do."

his breath washes me in a sigh. i wish i could take those words back and stuff them down my throat again.

"he loves you. he's trying." the way john says it sounds like a song. something caught on my fingers.

i let it fall and talk about the rain. we spend the day in bed under the wool and the following day reading, taking turns. we cook, we clean, we listen to the radio. i could live with john paul. i cannot live with you.

the start of the new week he drives me back across the countryside in his little maroon car. i kiss him goodbye.

you're coming back for the weekend from the north. i breathe without you for the afternoon. heavy, deep breaths. i make a stew in the kitchen, like you told me your mother made when you were a child, and wait.

you're here before it gets dark, legs dirty from playing football in the mud.

you bruise me with your look, show you're teeth, and tilt your head. you don't ask where i was. i think you know.

but that's not on your mind when you dip bread into the soup, when you eat so ravenous. you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

i think of john and his napkins, folding between gentle fingers. john and his loving fingers when they press against my mouth to hold me still. john touching me while i bathe.

"how's pagey and 'em?"

"huh?" i turn to stare your way. your wet hair is caught in your face. your mustache, like john's, makes you look half-grown.

"you phoned them while i was out?"

"they're well," i say. john and i got to talking and he invited me down to meet him for lunch. that's how it planned out. jimmy told me he was spending the day taking photographs. i asked him to send me some when he got the chance. pat answered the phone for bonzo and said her man was still asleep.

"you're upset?" you try. you get up and move around, awkward in the semi-dark.

"no, not at all. the weather makes me tired."

"me too." sniffling, nodding. "i'm going to clean up."

you love me. you're trying. you know about john.

there's wine in the cabinet that shines deep red when i hold it up. i drink. i get drunk and laugh when you revisit wrapped in a blanket, naked like a babe. you laugh with me, sip with me, take my hands and undress with me. we're earthy and bare together and you brush my cheek with yours:

"i'm glad he makes you happy. i'm writing a letter to thank him."

a fading smile interrupts me. "what?"

"you're nobody's wife. and i know that now. you deserve to be free."

i don't know what to tell you, but get the urge to bury my face in your warm center, where the hair on your stomach makes me happy. i'll nest here for a while, so that you know i savored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, L. Cohen. Often on my mind.


	7. me & magdalena

**"me and magdalena, always leaving early and sleeping late"**

route 66 to california. i say _follow the road signs_ , but you're content with getting lost. after that, you knighted me _navigator_ in the backseat in texas, my hands on the leather and midnight steam on the windows.

we stop for ice cream outside of four corners. you bounce me on your knee, spill vanilla bean down my shirt and laugh. we take portable camera pictures. i'm in all four states at once, lying spread across the monument. you snap my photo.

we take a detour in the desert and spend the night at a motel. i watch johnny carson on the tv. you take the acoustic guitar and sing me an old country song. in the morning we eat breakfast in the diner and get back on the road.

one more ghost town before the coast. i jump out and pretend i'm a cowboy. we play high noon duel. the camera clicks.

in california, you drive straight to the edge: cliffs overlooking the sea. we change our clothes in the car and you grab my hand to walk with me all the way down. the sand's hot. your palms are warm and happy and habitual. i take a look behind me at the sun and look ahead at you. both blinding. goosebumps flare over my skin even in the heat.

"are you ready?" you ask.

"yes." i say.

we run. we spill into the ocean.


	8. sweet surrender

**_"sweet surrender to love"_ **

honey candy skin. noon. i am holding you deeply for the first time. 

"kiss me," i say. your lips are pink and dewy with saliva. your eyes are upholding. beneath your brows, you look at me and kiss again. you find, with the tip of your tongue, the edges and spaces of me. you make a map of my body, collecting my sweat and my scent, and end with your head between my legs.

my knees are open to you and my thoughts are full with you: gold and bare, monet's wheat stacks, _sun in the mist_.

white linen curtains billow open. i billow to you, silk-smooth.

"you taste like honeysuckle," you mouth on me, my name on the edge. i gather your curls in my hands and they overfill, spilling between my fingers, tickling my thighs. you're face-first. it sends an ache racing through me as if i'm dancing with tired, worn legs. we play this scene as i've always wanted it. i am almost at the edge.

but i want you mounted and wild, earth-deep and dirty-heeled. you oblige, face blush-dusted, and we turn over. my legs engirth you. i am above you, teasing myself on you: a waist i love, the hair on your belly, warm and soft, and the place where i sink down. hot feeling floods my veins. my breath leaves with the recognition of my body and yours.

the swell and dip of me is my song to you — undisguised and brutal. your chest is wet and the curls there are clumped and dark. we can be supple together. we can be young and share this fever that makes our eyes wide.

"i've wanted . . . for a long time," i tell you out loud. to be your on-stage match, your microphone, your harmonica player. i'd like to make you shudder.

i know, suddenly, it's summer. outside, my flowers are full and fragrant. i take baths daily to ease the heat from my skin. you find me, in a break, even when you miss home, and we eat candies together on the bed.

"robert." i am so heavy with you. i can only find myself adjacent to you as you reach up and touch my face. your eyes hold all of me, even the parts that are coming undone above you.

i watch you take your peak and smile, drowsy, when your hands fall to your sides. you're sheened and calming. i sweep my fingers over your red cheeks and hold the side of your face.

"you're burning," i murmur.

you nod, "i am." your gaze slides around the room and stops when you come back to me. your grin grows. "i missed you."

i break away, pulling myself with a shiver in my limbs. you gasp.

at the window, the sun beats down on me. the sky burns bright and clear. behind me, i can hear you in bed, the sheets crinkling, and know that you're shutting your eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking of Whitman, Patti Smith, and Tim Buckley.


	9. travelling song

_**"and, baby, when we get there i'll do everything for you"** _

the road channels out in front of me and your headlights cast a bright swath over the asphalt. the trees get their spotlight when you turn into the countryside. between waking and sleeping, the hills bound like running rabbits and the dark calms me. you hum leadbelly from the car's cassette player. _old howard's dead and gone . . ._

leadbelly becomes robert johnson. your voice mixes with the thrum of the engine and i lull asleep. this time, i dream i convinced you to take a plane home from london. instead of following a rainy back-road, we're taking naps at 30,000 feet.

i don't wake again until you nudge me. we're in a town with little buildings and houses. feeling prickles back into my legs.

"hey," you say, leaning into the open passenger door. your voice is deep with fatigue. i clutch your fuzzy sweater to find some ground. a whine presses behind my lips. 

we're stopped in front of a 24-hour diner: i catch outlines of people eating in the booths.

you pull at my hand. "do you know what day it is?"

"no," i groan. my mind hasn't yet caught up to my body. "where are we, robert?"

"shenstone . . . it's your birthday today. happy birthday, my dear."

i strain. you've still got a hold on me. the clock in the car reads 12:04 am. 

a smile edges at the corners of my lips. i nod and look up at you. your face is crinkled and worn. "it _is_ my birthday," i affirm. 

"it is. what was first on your list for this year?" you ask with a raised pitch in your voice. if you weren't so tired, i imagine you'd pick me up and spin me around. 

"oh! chocolate chip pancakes," i tell you. a giggle bubbles in my throat as you finally get me out of the car. rain puddles leave crystal spots in the parking lot, reflecting the moon and the black-purple sky. 

you're warm in the chill of the night and i cling to you as we walk up the steps to the restaurant. you told me a month ago to make a list of everything i wanted for my birthday. i crafted it carefully: pancakes, a day in bed, going berry gathering, and taking the horses for a gallop. 

we take seats at the bar where the waiter asks our orders. you get a coffee and i hover near you to take its warmth. my pancakes come fresh from the griddle with powdered sugar on top. the chocolate melts when i cut into them.

"this is good," i tell you. 

"your food?"

"no . . . i mean, yes. but being here with you is good. i'm glad we're driving home." 

you smile and take my hand from my lap, rub the chill away with your palms. "i have something to tell you."

i bite my lip and laugh. i get so giddy with you. "what?" 

leaning into me, your hair brushes my cheek as you whisper soft in my ear, "i love you." you pull away to see my reaction, but i gesture you closer to play the same game. 

"i love you," i whisper back and kiss you lightly on the cheek. i would press my lips to yours, but there are coal miners and truck drivers sitting and having midnight meals. i let my fingertips kiss you instead, rubbing at the corner of your mouth. "are you hungry?" 

"a little." you nod your head toward my plate. "are you willing to share?" 

"of course." i pass the pancakes over to you and watch you pour syrup over them. you told me when we met that you had a horrible sweet tooth, a craving for sweet things. 

_"like me?" i'd asked._

_the grin you gave me in return . . . "yes, like you."_

"i loved you the first time i met you," i tell you again, fiddling with the napkins on the counter. 

"i did, too. like having tunnel vision. you were the only thing i could see." 

i reach up and fix a misplaced curl on your shoulder. "your hair was longer then." 

"and now it's shorter. but you're still here, despite it all." there's bustling in the kitchen, orders called out and steam rising, but still, i hear the ache of sadness in your throat. 

"i'll always be here," i tell you. 

you turn my way, eyes open and clear, like in photos from your youth. "promise?" 

i hook my pinky with yours and give a solid shake. "promise." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking of Pentangle and the back roads of night driving.


End file.
